Best Laid Plans
by Lady Sam Mallory
Summary: Sherlock and John race the clock to find a thief that threatens Lestrade's career as well as their very lives. This is my take on the origin of their code words Vatican Cameos. COMPLETE.


Best Laid Plans

**Author:** Lady Sam Mallory

**Disclaimers:** Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.

**Special Thanks to:** My exceptional Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. You are truly my conductor of light. Thank you for thirty years of friendship.

For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

**Warnings:** H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.

**Spoilers:** NONE

**Author's Comments: **This story explains the origins of the "Vatican Cameos" code and takes place shortly after _The Great Game_, but before the events of "Someone That You Used to Know." Sherlock and John work this case September 18, 2010, which is, in fact, the exact date that Pope Benedict appeared at Hyde Park in London.

Also, I found a picture that I used for inspiration on what the girl would look like. Here is the link. You must convert each word dot into an actual period and remove the space before and after the word dot, as well as the spaces between. It is a lovely image of Rupert Graves and his daughter.

: / / balletnews dot co dot uk/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/ENB-60th-Anniversary-4 dot jpg

* * *

"No," Sherlock says childishly. "I'm not in the mood."

John sighs and counts to ten…in German. Taking a deep breath and plastering a smile on his face, he reminds his obstinate flatmate, "You promised to make today a case interview day. There are people waiting, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Well, how was I possibly to know that this was today's plan, John? Honestly," Sherlock complains quietly before looking over at John quizzically asking, "German?"

"Yes, it's German. Don't change the subject. It's called a calendar and you're doing this. Now, get dressed or you'll be doing these interviews in your sheet," John chastises, grabbing the detective's empty cup from his hand. "Five minutes."

Sherlock's mouth turns downward as he gets up from the sofa to get dressed.

"And stop pouting," John hollers after him causing Sherlock to frown further.

Sherlock stops at the kitchen on his way back to his room. "How many times do I have to tell you, John? This is not a pout. I am simply displaying the antithesis to a smile."

John shakes his head and laughs as Sherlock returns to his room to dress.

John opens the flat door to admit the first possible client as Sherlock makes his way back into the sitting room. "Ninety seconds to spare. Happy now?" he inquires snidely, looking over at John with amusement dancing in his blue eyes.

"Delirious," John announces as he shows a middle-aged man to the chair in the middle of the room.

"Go ahead," Sherlock beckons impatiently, his eyes studying every facet of the tallish man in the chair.

"I don't know where to begin," he starts shrugging his shoulders, as Sherlock drops his head backward dramatically as if it is too heavy to hold up.

"Oh, for…" Sherlock huffs at the exact moment the man introduces himself as Daniel.

"Irrelevant. Move along," the consulting detective drawls, gesturing impatiently with his right hand.

"I think that…. my husband is having an affair," Daniel announces, causing John to cringe as he always does in these matters.

Sherlock analyzes the man in front of him. "No, he is not. You are, though, obviously," Sherlock gauges before shouting at the top of his lungs. "Next!"

John puts his head in his hands. "Well, that went well," John mumbles, shaking his head before seeing in the next potential client. "Remember to play nice, Sherlock. You _want_ a case, right?" He whispers as he passes the detective.

Sherlock tips his head and takes in John's expression before answering, "Of course, don't be an idiot."

The next to enter was a young red-headed woman who took her seat, crossing her feet at the ankles and placing her gloved hands in her lap. "I have lost my grandmother's broach. I've looked everywhere, but…" she begins, her lilting voice making John smile.

Sherlock looks her over before answering clearly. "The broach is in one of your late husband's shoes in your wardrobe," he answers quickly.

Her jaw drops open, before she realizes her rudeness and puts her hand over her mouth.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Your husband passed away recently. You wear his wedding ring on your left middle finger, and it has obviously only been there for a short time, probably because you haven't had time to buy a chain for it. The broach was your grandmother's and, therefore, very sentimental to you. You would have worn it to your husband's funeral within the last few days?"

She nods in response.

"There are clasp marks on your lapel. The broach obviously fell as you were putting your jacket away after the funeral," Sherlock finishes, moving back towards the kitchen once again.

"That's amazing," she whispers before crying a bit and saying, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

She steps from the flat and closes the door.

Sherlock crosses back to the desk as the next client walks in the door. She makes her way across the room, one of her sneakers untied, and her long brown hair in tangles around her oval face. There is a small brown package in her right hand.

"I thought we agreed no more cases for children," he says, disregarding the child that has just walked into the room and sat on the sofa.

She smiles up at them ignoring their conference and says, "I'll sit here. My father taught me to sit with my back to a wall when I'm someplace new and I mostly listen to him."

John stands up and approaches the girl. "Look, I'm sorry," John begins, only stopping when he sees she's raised her hand and offered him the package.

"This was on your front step, so I brought it in for you. Ok, I don't have a lot of time. My father will miss me soon. I'm not stupid," she asserts, her large brown eyes serious.

Sherlock smiles, intrigued by this one, and pulls the chair over, turning it around so that he may face her, leaving John standing up leaning against the window after he places the package on the desk.

"Your father doesn't know you're here," Sherlock announces, his brows drawing his expression into a frown.

The child rolls her eyes, responding, "Obviously. Were you not paying attention when I insinuated that?"

John can't help it. He laughs out loud, causing Sherlock to turn an intense glare in his direction.

"Proceed," Sherlock offers, gesturing with his hand for her to continue.

"My father is an important man with a very important job. He protects people who can't protect themselves. I overheard him talking to my mum last night, and he's worried that he's going to lose his job. He got into a fight last night at work, and they stole something that he has to have back or he told Mum his job, a job he's the best at, is done. You're supposed to be the best. I only have about eight quid saved, but it's all yours," she rambles, trying to keep her voice steady and the tears from her eyes.

John hides a chuckle behind his hand at the directness of this child and can't help but feel that he knows her.

"What's your name?" He asks. Pointing a finger at Sherlock, he adds, "And don't say irrelevant."

She laughs, her peels of laughter resounding through the flat. "My name is Emily," she introduces. "Emily…"

"Lestrade," Sherlock finishes for her then looks over to catch John's completely floored expression.

"What did your father lose?" John inquires, his attention riveted on the child so like her father.

"His gun," she replies quietly. "He told mum it's very bad, but I don't think a good man like my father who puts away really bad people should be punished for being attacked and having it stolen. He has to get it back. You have to help him because you're the best and my father is stubborn. He won't ask you. He probably won't even tell you."

Sherlock pauses, taking a breath to answer when John does it for him.

"We'll take the case, but you can keep your eight quid," John relays to her with a gentle smile.

"Thank you. You're the best!" Emily gushes as she hugs first John and then Sherlock, who holds his hands out to the side unsure of how he wants to respond.

"I know," Sherlock replies, glancing at John for a little assistance with his new clingy friend.

* * *

"I don't give a good bloody damn how long it takes, just get it done!" Lestrade hollers, rubbing at the bandage on his forehead as he slams the receiver down.

The door to his office opens. He looks up and rolls his eyes.

"I don't have the time," he informs Sherlock and John as they enter the room taking in his black and purple swollen eye.

John shuts the door before turning and taking a chair. Sherlock, as usual, prefers not only to stand, but also pace to and fro behind the chairs where John sits quietly.

"We already have a client. We just need to speak to the witness…" Sherlock explains, his Belstaff floating around him as he moves throughout the small office.

John leans forward in his chair. "Did you go to hospital, Greg?" He asks concern and suspicion in his voice.

"For a black eye and a little cut? Please, John," Lestrade snaps, not meeting his eyes and attempting to divert attention by shuffling several files on his desk.

John stares at Lestrade for a full thirty seconds before letting him have it with both barrels. "I was thinking more for the fractured ribs on your left side you've been guarding and the laceration that's currently bleeding through your shirt, you stupid git," John accuses, his glare daring Greg to try to deny it.

"Nice bed side manner, John," Greg whispers looking exhaustedly at his friends.

Sherlock huffs a bit before replying, "That is his nice bed side manner. You should see what I get."

Lestrade chuckles, grabbing for the ribs on his left side. "Oh, ow. Shit, that smarts," he bites out through clenched teeth. He sighs shallowly and sits gingerly in his chair.

"Look, I've had a really buggered day. Let me see about getting my hands on the witness you need to talk to," he offers, flinching as he pulls out his notebook and grabs a pen to write down the information.

"His name's Greg Lestrade," Sherlock quips while leaning over Lestrade's shoulder as he writes the first few letters before his brain catches up. He sets down his pen and looks over at John.

"You know," he says resignedly, putting his face into his hands. "Great, now I'll never hear the bloody end of it!"

John reaches across the desk and pats the Detective Inspector's shoulder. "It's not your fault, mate. We're here to help you," John soothes and withdraws his hand.

Lestrade's head pops up suddenly eliciting a groan from the Detective Inspector.

"Wait, I didn't tell you, and you said you already had a client," he pieces together glancing from one man to the other.

Sherlock looks over at John. "True," he says, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"We hold our client's privacy to the highest standards," John states seriously, as he watches Greg look outside his office for anyone who may have known. "Plus, we don't want her to get grounded."

Lestrade's gaze flies immediately back to John who chuckles at the confusion displayed there.

"She's spirited," Sherlock adds, seemingly at random. "Wonder where she gets that from?"

"Emily? But, we didn't tell her. She hasn't even seen me today because I didn't want her to worry," Lestrade admits, his fingers spread out before him on the desk.

John smiles recounting, "She's resourceful. She came to Baker Street and forced us to take the case. Offered us 8 quid."

"You didn't take it," Lestrade replies knowingly, rubbing his head and neck with a grimace.

Sherlock looks up at him in consternation, "Of course not. We don't bill you. Why would we bill little you?"

Lestrade laughs as tears of pride and pain fill his eyes, and he holds onto his left side. "Thank you," he gasps exchanging thoughtful looks with each of them.

John nods respectfully as Sherlock closes the blinds and locks the door.

"Okay, now let's look you over properly," John states as he places his medical bag on the Detective Inspector's desk and waits for Lestrade to take off his shirt.

John cringes as he takes in the boot tread bruise over Lestrade's left ribcage.

"Ouch. Raise your left arm a bit and let me have a look," John orders as he probes the obviously swollen ribcage tenderly. "Keep breathing, Greg."

Lestrade blows out the breath he's been holding and tries to take another one unsuccessfully. He groans as tears wet his brown eyes.

"Sorry, mate. I'm trying to be as gentle as I can. Sherlock, grab the bin, just in case," John commands as he continues to examine the area.

Sherlock sets the bin in Lestrade's lap and continues to study his friend's injuries from an evidence gathering perspective. He circles Lestrade, who is becoming more uncomfortable under the detective's penetrating gaze, occasionally verifying information on his mobile.

_**Boot size 15**_

_**Height over 6'5**_

_**Weight 125 kg (275 lbs)**_

"Must you do that now?" Lestrade barks out on a moan as John finds a particularly sensitive area. "Fuck."

Sherlock continues to analyze, but in deference to Lestrade's mood attempts to remain stationary to do so.

"Sorry, I'm almost done. There's marked tenderness over these two ribs," John explains as he gently investigates them with his fingertips. "They're most likely severely bruised or quite possibly fractured."

Lestrade sighs and orders, "Tape 'em up. I've got work to do."

John shakes his head. "We can't tape them. You need to breathe, and you really don't want pneumonia on top of everything else," he tells Lestrade quietly, then listens to his lungs and heart with the stethoscope. Satisfied that everything is within normal limits, he begins digging through his bag.

John pulls out a bottle of paracetamol and hands it over to the Detective Inspector, then pulls a prescription pad out of his pants' pocket and writes out a script for something stronger. "These should hold you during the day if you take it easy. This one's a stronger painkiller. Fill that at the chemist to take at night," he directs as he hands over the prescription.

"That's where you've been keeping them," Sherlock exclaims overjoyed at finding the prescription pad.

John rolls his eyes and scowls at his friend. "I've told you a thousand times that this pad is not for you to use at your whim," John chastises as he holds the pad up and then shoves it back into his trouser pocket.

"I do not cater to whims," Sherlock corrects, his blue eyes twinkling. "I am well above that."

John snorts in amusement, "Right, sure you are." He returns his gaze to Lestrade.

"You're going to have to take it easy for about six weeks or you won't heal up right. Also, have you got an hourly alarm on your watch?" John inquires gazing at the watch in question.

Lestrade nods, his eyes closed as he attempts to breathe.

John taps him firmly on the cheek opposite the damage. "Wake up, Greg. This is important. Set your watch to go off every hour, and when it does, you need to cough or take the deepest breath you can; otherwise, you'll end up in hospital with pneumonia.

"Tonight, when you go to sleep, lay on the left injured side. It sounds backwards, but it will actually help you breathe better. Now, I'm going to write this all down so you can remember it," John instructs, jotting it all down on an instruction sheet that he keeps in his bag.

He hands it to Lestrade, pushing his stuff back into his bag.

"I need to see the crime scene," Sherlock rattles off, handing Lestrade and John their coats.

"Mind if I get dressed first?" Lestrade asks snidely, a knowing smile on his face.

Sherlock sighs along with an eye roll responding impatiently, "If you must."

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me that he hurt your knee?" John whispers to Lestrade at the entrance of the alleyway.

Lestrade shrugs and replies, his face adorned by an ornery smile, "Didn't want to you to make me take off my pants, too."

John chuckles bringing his hand up to his chin, "Well, aren't you a smart arse?"

Lestrade laughs out loud, grabbing his left side. "Damnit. John Watson, you are a vicious prick," he curses when John continues to laugh, although he grimaces in sympathy with the Detective Inspector's pain.

Sherlock critically surveys the alley where the assault took place adding the new knowledge to that which he gleaned during John's examination.

_**Blood smears on the skip**_

_**Large footprint in mud**_

_**Smudge on Lestrade's trench coat**_

Sherlock continues to catalogue the scene when his face breaks into a vainglorious grin.

"Got it," Sherlock boasts, as he turns towards Lestrade with a whirl of his Belstaff. "You came into the alley after the suspect, over there," he reports with a flourish as he reenacts the scene. "He lay in wait behind the skip, here. He took out your left leg first, hence the limp."

Sherlock gestures at the skip. "That's most likely the blood from when he smashed your head into the skip, then you fell here," Sherlock says as he falls to the ground where Lestrade had landed the night before.

John steps forward and hollers at Sherlock, his tone irritated, "Get off the ground, you bloody wanker. We just had that coat cleaned again."

Sherlock excitedly continues, "He stepped on your chest here, which fractured your ribs. Size 15 boot tread from a Caterpillar work boot, looked it up in your office. Size 15 is difficult to come by. He left a footprint here in the mud on the other side of these bins. Tread matches the print on your chest."

Lestrade's jaw drops open marginally. "That's amazing," he whispers.

Sherlock looks at him oddly, before turning to John, "He took your line."

John shakes his head, "You're insufferable, Sherlock. You bloody well know that, don't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers shortly, before turning back to the scene. "He also dropped a receipt when he bent over to pinch your gun. The smudges are a match to the ones on your coat, probably from his hands where he grabbed you as he levered you into the skip." He triumphantly holds up the receipt in his gloved hand.

"How did Anderson miss that?" Lestrade snaps angrily.

John closes one eye and tilts his head to the side in a grimace from the expectation of Sherlock's forthcoming answer.

"He's an idiot, Lestrade," Sherlock explodes abruptly. "I keep saying it over and over again. Does anybody listen to me?"

John releases a heavy sigh as he meets Sherlock's exasperated gaze, "Always."

* * *

"John, I've done it!" Sherlock exclaims as he barges through the flat door to see John sitting in his chair. "It was too easy. I know exactly where Lestrade's attacker will be at 6:00. Come, Watson. There's no time to dally."

Sherlock pauses as John does not move a muscle other than to turn toward Sherlock who stops as soon as he sees the doctor's bruised and swollen face.

"I can top that. I know where Lestrade's attacker is right now," John replies tipping his head to the back left toward the hall to Sherlock's room.

The criminal steps forward with Lestrade's gun in his right hand. "Have a seat, Mr. Holmes," he offers gesturing with the weapon. "Wow, you guys were really easy to find."

John glances over at Sherlock and says, "We might want to do something 'bout that."

The gunman looks at them both. "Well, you know what they say…the best laid plans and all that rot," he recites almost cheerfully.

"Of mice and men, often go awry," John finishes the quote, glaring at his captor.

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and questions, "Which are you?" earning him a cuff to the side of the head with the gun.

Sherlock sighs and shakes his head looking back toward the doctor. "A warning might have been nice," he hisses at John, who glares at the tall, obnoxious detective.

"Sherlock, there's a man with a gun in the flat," John states sarcastically, his face tight with the tension of the last half hour. "Happy now?"

"Delirious," Sherlock deadpans, taking a seat in his usual chair.

The gunman circles round to stand in the open space in front of the sofa and table. "Shut it," he yells shakily. "I need to think."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "This should be good," he snipes, drawing a deep breath and heaving it out in a great sigh.

"I mean it. Shut it or I'll put a bullet in you," the attacker shouts again.

"Please don't agitate the man with the gun. I know we've gone over this, but you…" John reminds his friend and flatmate.

"What about me?" Sherlock demands, ignoring the man with Lestrade's weapon who becomes more irritated with each passing second.

John uses his left hand to swipe at his face, his eyes darting to the right where the gunman stands rigidly, "Really, you have to ask?"

"_Enough!" _The bulky man roars waving the gun to and fro for emphasis. "I feel like I nicked my parents. Shut up."

Sherlock and John make their move at the same moment. John goes low, hitting the assailant in the legs like a freight train. Sherlock takes the high road, clothes lining the man across the throat just as the gun goes off.

They each look at the unconscious gunman on the floor.

"I'll phone Lestrade," John announces, getting up slowly to his feet after checking the downed man's pulse.

"Brilliant," Sherlock replies, picking the gun up from where it fell and crossing over to his chair to drop down into it.

"Bloody hell," Sherlock exclaims. "Um…John?"

John turns towards Sherlock not at all liking the tone of the detective's voice.

"Yes, Lestrade. See you in 15, then. Brilliant. Yes. You're welcome," John finishes as he rings off. He glances back at the assailant to see that he has not regained consciousness and pulls some plastic ties from the draw in the kitchen.

Bending down, he flips the behemoth over and cuffs his wrists and ankles just to be certain he doesn't try to be clever.

"John? There's a hole in my Belstaff," Sherlock reports tightly, his teeth clenched together.

John looks over at him, shaking his head. "We'll get it patched. It's not like it's the first time," he says, fading out as he realizes what Sherlock is not saying. He stands up and looks his flatmate over, surprised to see that the man is actually a bit shaky.

"Sherlock?" John attempts to get the detective's attention, then glances down at Sherlock's left arm and closes his eyes. "Is there a hole in your arm? Is that what you meant to say?"

Sherlock meets John's eyes. "Well…. Obviously, that too," Sherlock retorts as John crosses to the desk to grab one of the many stashed first aid kits out of the draw.

"Holes in your body are more important than holes in your coat, Sherlock," John chastises rationally through his teeth.

John crosses the floor, carefully stepping around the semiconscious man, whom he kicks for good measure, and brings the kit over to where Sherlock is seated.

Sherlock huffs out, "I think that's really a matter of opinion, John. Don't you agree, Lestrade?" He asks as the Detective Inspector enters the flat with Donovan close behind.

Lestrade stops suddenly. "Sorry, what?" He asks turning towards the consulting detective.

John waves him in pointing to the groaning man in the middle of the floor, "First of all, can you take out the rubbish?"

Lestrade smiles and waves Donovan forward, "Donovan, take him in, please, and I'll take care of the paperwork when I get back, right?"

"Fine, Detective Inspector. Right away. Does he have to be in one piece when he gets there?" Sally asks, dragging the man up off the floor after replacing the plastic ties with standard issue cuffs.

"Definitely. Don't do anything stupid, Donovan. I mean it," he advises as she takes the man out the door.

Lestrade turns back towards John and Sherlock, "Rubbish out. What happened here?"

"Apparently, he was a bit more skittish than I thought," Sherlock replies, cringing when John pours alcohol on the bullet wound.

"Were you shot?" Lestrade demands, crossing the room to get a closer look.

Sherlock shrugs, causing John to slip while he cleans the wound.

"Sit…still," John commands continuing to debride the area of little pieces of Belstaff and purple silk.

Sherlock pouts suddenly. "This was my favorite shirt," he hisses at John who cuts it free from his arm.

"Then you probably shouldn't have gotten shot in it," John answers back just as irritated with the situation as the consulting detective.

Lestrade sighs, then curses, "Ah, bugger me. There's going to be paperwork galore on this. At least, from what I can tell, that was the only shot fired. It's the only round missing."

"Excellent. Is this really necessary, John? It's just a scratch," Sherlock complains as he tries to pull his arm away.

John grabs the arm and locks it between his own arm and his torso, "Yes, it is necessary. As I've told you before, not cleaning, bandaging and stitching wounds can lead to infections, which rot your bloody amazing brain. Not an option. Now shut it and let me finish this up. Oh, and it's a laceration, which is actually a bit more serious than a scratch."

Lestrade shakes his head at the antics of his friends. He takes a deep breath, grimaces at the pull in his left side, and lets it out, releasing a lot of the stress of the day. His gaze turns serious as he gets their attention. "Thank you," he says. "I hate to say it, but I owe you one."

John blows out a breath as Sherlock draws one in, his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Now you've done it," John whispers, tilting his head towards Sherlock.

Lestrade catches the gleam in the consulting detective's eyes. "I suppose I probably have, but it's true," Lestrade reiterates, clapping John's shoulder softly so as not to spoil the man's handiwork on Sherlock's arm.

"Don't forget to thank Emily. Without her, we never would have known what was going on," John prompts, finishing up with the last few stitches.

Lestrade looks guilty and proud at the same time, "I'll tell her. Night gents."

"Goodnight," they reply together, as John bandages Sherlock's arm and gives it a gentle pat.

* * *

John and Sherlock are sitting on the sofa watching the news on the telly when John finally remembers the small package he left sitting on the desk.

He swipes the package off the desk and sits down next to Sherlock to open it.

"Live from Hyde Park, where we wait for the Pope to enter…" the telly drones as John tears open the package.

"You know, Sherlock, I've been thinking," John begins distractedly as he finishes tearing off the paper.

Sherlock sighs and remarks dryly, "A dangerous proposition," earning a smirk from his flatmate.

"We need some kind of code, a warning that we can use so that these things don't keep happening," John elaborates, his face drawing up in confusion as he takes in the contents of the box.

Sherlock notices the change in John's demeanor but remains silent as John reverently grazes his fingers over the object and tears spring to his eyes.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asks tentatively as he looks across to his watery-eyed friend.

John takes a deep breath. "It was my mother's cameo. She used to wear it on special occasions, but she gave it to Harry when my sister left home," John explains with quiet respect in hushed tones.

Sherlock nods at John, confirming that he has heard him regardless of whether he knows how to respond.

"Vatican Cameos," Sherlock says quietly, drawing his eyes down to the cameo and back up to John's blue ones.

John looks up at him in an uncomprehending daze.

"That shall be our code, John. Whenever there is trouble that we need to warn the other about, we shall say Vatican Cameos," Sherlock reiterates, a small smile tugging at his thin lips.

John thinks about that as a smile comes to his face. "Vatican Cameos," he whispers, trying out the phrase.

"Perfect," John says, as he places the cameo gently on the table in front of him and gets up heading into the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Of course," Sherlock replies, his eyes drawn back to the telly where the Pope has just entered Hyde Park.

**The End**


End file.
